


Inspiration

by NovaNara



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Chesterton retelling, F/M, Fluff and Humor, M/M, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28093554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NovaNara/pseuds/NovaNara
Summary: Exotic plots, lost treasures, and a baffled client. The solution seems close, but will take even Holmes aback.
Relationships: OMC/OFC, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Inspiration

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ennui_Enigma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ennui_Enigma/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Happy Birthday, Muse!!! Hope this will make you smile. And yes, I've adapted for you a Chesterton story that actively disses Sherlock Holmes. I couldn't resist.

It was only a little after our first case together, and I still felt unsure of my standing as Holmes' associate in his career. So, when Mrs. Hudson announced a client, I rose, intending to make myself scarce. Before I could do so, or even notice Holmes' gesture to stay, said client had marched in and declared, “Friend remain. Assistance possibly.”

Even I could see at a glance that the man was a former colleague of mine – an army man – from a number of details in his demeanour. While we are trained not to waste words, he – major Thomas Brown, by his introduction – had brought it to the extreme. It felt like we weren't talking, so much as having telegrams read to us.

  
So long as the relevant details were shared, Holmes didn't seem to mind the major's style, his brain filling the gaps even better than my own. For the ease of my readers, instead of literal quotes, I'll share the shocking adventure major Brown found himself involved in with full sentences.

The major retired not long after I did, and had since dedicated his life to the cultivation of pansies. The delicate flowers were his pride and joy, bringing a glint of enthusiasm to the rigid man's eyes. Each fragile beauty, growing straight and strong, in neat rows, appealed both to his memories and to an aesthetic sense the man's aspect belied.

When, during an afternoon stroll, our client had met a seller with a push cart full of gorgeous examples of his favourite flower, he simply had to stop, judging and discussing which ones he could bring home, and exactly how much they were worth, like any collectionist literally running into the object of his passion. And when the seller had mentioned how he could have seen simply breath-taking ones beyond the very wall they were walking along, and offered his help to climb it, our man had only hesitated briefly, thinking of propriety and reputation. Without any need of help, he was soon on top of the wall.

It was a marvel he didn't tumble right down it, because that was when a pleasant afternoon turned into a nonsensical string of events. The promised pansies were there, alright. Beautiful as they could be, and tended to by an ordinary-looking gardener, in the process of watering them. What shocked our client was that the flowers spelled “Death to Major Brown”. Even after he rubbed his eyes and pinched himself, the threatening message remained.

The major did the only thing he felt he could do. He climbed down, resolved to get to the bottom of this. The spooked gardener, once informed of our client's identity, directed him to enter the main house. A heartfelt plea to avoid mentioning jackals – which hadn't been in major Brown's mind at all, no more than polar bears – and the labourer scarpered quickly.

Evermore baffled, Brown followed the one track he'd been given. Inside the house, he met a woman. She was staring through a window, back to him, so his first impression was of auburn hair and a simple green dress. “I imagine,” a soft voices said, “that you've come to reproach me.” Then she apologised for not meeting his gaze, explaining was forbidden to turn away from her post until 6 o'clock.  
  
If one thing made sense all this afternoon, it was obeying orders, and the major assured her that he didn't mind. Sure, he didn't still understand or know anything. But he would never force anyone, much less a lady, to defy instructions, especially when danger was looming. For him, he just wanted explanations. But who knew with what fears she had to live?

  
Still, he was stern when introducing himself. He didn't believe that she was the mastermind behind the threat, at all. But someone couldn't sit in a house with a death threat planted just outside, without Brown demanding an explanation.  
  
And what an explanation did he get! Well, not really an explanation so much as hints here to something grander, as if he was supposed to be perfectly acquainted with everything and the mere mention of a place, or a codeword, should be enough. What he did glean, though, spoke of danger, plots woven back in the colonies he'd visited, lost treasures, and mysteries that might or might not have a hint of the supernatural in them. Possibly a cult, possibly something worse. It was all highly confusing, and – as fascinating a novel as it could have been – it was not something the orderly mind of major Brown could unravel, much less understand why he'd suddenly found himself entangled with.

Finally, a nearby church's bells sounded six. Immediately his Sheherazade turned, watching him with wistful grey eyes. Before she could bring the tale to a conclusion, someone from outside yelled, “Major Brown, what happened to the jackal?” and again, “Major Brown, where did you hid the jackal?”  
  


The major didn't have any answer to that, but he sure had questions, and at least this new interloper was a man – and involved with the conspiracy, too. Without listening to the woman's begging for him to be careful, he rushed outside, resolved to confront head-on whatever may come. Seeing, in an otherwise empty park, a head abruptly disappear underground, shocked him for a second. But – a coal hole, of course. And so Brown had followed the rascal.

Despite his challenging words – and the fact that that head was attached to a sizable body – his mysterious enemy seemed unwilling to actually fight. After being threatened, bewildered, and frustrated, our client's first aim was to teach a lesson to the man. Interrogation could come later. But his opponent followed the eel school of combat, trying to get away more than anything else. In the end, Brown had been left with just the man's jacket in his hands, while the other squeezed through a door that locked soundly behind him.  
  
That had landed Brown a prize, though – in a pocket, there was a crumpled note. Instructions to attack as soon as possible, with an ominous “the coal hole will do nicely.” But also – a signature. It was more than most cases would start with, and the major left, assured that we'd look into it, leaving the note – and the address where he encountered his adventure – to us.  
  
“Well, that's a pretty puzzle,” Holmes said.  
  
I grinned. It was undoubtedly a fascinating tale.  
  
“Nobody could forget to have been involved in such a lurid story, unless drugs or amnesia due to severe illness were involved. However, the major showed no hint of both, nor he mentioned when this could have happened. So it was bait. It could be for him, and we'll see him back tomorrow at the latest, complaining about a theft or, at least, strangers entering his home – he's orderly enough to notice the least disruption. Or it could be for us....but in that case, why would anyone put up such an elaborate tale instead of a more straightfoward mystery? If someone want this man found, there would be dozens of easier lies.”

“Maybe they appreciate a bit of flair. If one has to come up with a fake story, why go for a boring one?” I replied.

“Maybe you're the one who's being baited, Watson. This sounds more your field than mine. Any old enemies of yours I should be aware of?”

  
“None come to mind. Maybe it's just someone's idea of a prank, Holmes.”  
  


We visited the address the following morning. Usually we would have immediately moved, but if it was bait for any of us, let them wait and – hopefully – lose patience. The place was up for rent, no sign of anyone's forced entry, except our client's wall-climbing, and even for a day, it would have required a nice sum to lease, and that didn't even touch the flowers' cost. If it was a prank, someone had invested more in it than I would expect. Holmes found obvious confirmation of our client's tale – from someone sitting at the window to the struggle inside the coal hole. If we were being baited, someone had taken pains to do it right.

When the day brought no more communication from Brown, Holmes set the Irregulars to find the man who'd signed the note, with instructions to be extra careful not to be noticed. Wiggins came to report two days later, with a grin and an address. He refused to say the reason of his mirth, though, shaking his head in a way that usually meant he didn't get people. “You'll like this one, doctor,” he assured, before collecting the money and leaving- no doubt for a little stop in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

The following day we went, collecting our client. The major was more than eager to meet the man behind everything, and soon we were knocking at what looked like any other office door. It wouldn't be the first time criminals affected respectability, but what happened next was without comparison in our experience, and so would remain.

We knocked, and a cheerful voice bid us in. The appearance of normality kept up. Samuel Westington, supposed mastermind of terror attacks and somehow involved in exotic mysteries, was a round-faced man, wearing pince-nez and a simple suit that wouldn't have been out of place on an accountant.

When our client announced his name, with a sternness that bordered on the growl, Mr. Westington smiled. Not a threatening smile, or a challenging one – this extraordinary man seemed honestly thrilled to see the one whom he'd ordered to ambush.  
  
“Oh, major Brown!” he exclaimed, taking a sheet of paper from a folder next to him. “We usually would settle these things when the operation is complete, but if you want to leave a down payment, of course you're more than welcome. Here you can see everything –” Indeed, the paper listed the expenses for everything, from the renting of the house to the flowers, the hiring of the gardener, and other details, all properly itemized.

Our client's shock, at this turn of events, expressed itself with a rather formidable upending of the desk, and all it contained. Westington just barely managed not to get hurt, jumping to the corner with a nimbleness he didn't show.  
  
“Oi!” he protested “A client can challenge a price, I've seen many of them, but please don't force me to call the police.”  
  
Before Brown could further escalate, Holmes put a hand on his arm. “A question, before any of us will, indeed, involve the authorities. Since when do you live in your house, major?”  
“I bought it a month ago, but what –”  
  
“And the former owner?” It was Westington, who then proceeded to bite his lip.

“Anthony Brown-Jones,” our client answered, voice flat with confusion.

“I'm so deeply sorry! There's been a terrible misunderstanding. Of course, we'll face the loss.” The not-so-criminal mastermind wringed his hands. “But I'll need to have talks with whomever missed the lack of hyphen on one side and a military rank on the other...you'd think that these things couldn't possibly happen!”

“Explain.” For once, Brown's briefness yielded results.  
  
“Of course. Maybe one of you gentlemen will want to ensure our services in the future? In short, we're fighting the dullness of modern life. Someone wants adventure? They read a book. Need a dash of mystery in one's life? Read a book. Does one feel ready to face untold horrors? Read a book. We're offering personalized, satisfaction-guaranteed stories, written by our best writers...and with the help of professional actors, we allow people to live them. The occasional chase, apparent breaking and entering, or whatever else the story demands keep people healthy, just like sport. People who wouldn't chase a ball are surprisingly motivated to catch a lady's jailer, for example.”  
  
I looked at Holmes, and couldn't help grinning. We wouldn't ever need the services of this agency, but only because reality gave us plenty of it. “I can't speak for the major, but – my name is John Watson, and this is Sherlock Holmes. If you read the Strand, you'll see why we won't come knocking again.”  
  
We walked back home, and I thought that would be the last we heard about the major, or the employees of such a peculiar agency. “Disappointed that there was no crime, my dear?”  
  
Holmes shrugged. “It sounded too outlandish a story to be true. At least I was right about that.”  
  
I smiled at him.

When, one year later, our former client invited us, I know Holmes secretely hoped that he would finally have a proper mystery. Instead, major Brown wanted to introduce – show off, really – his new wife. Amy, now Mrs. Brown, had long auburn hair, and her eyes barely left her husband, her love blatant. My suspicion on how they met was confirmed, when she said, “I've met many people that acted bravely in the agency's stories, but only one who would rush after what he honestly thought was a bloodthirsty criminal.”  
  
I wasn't angry at all with Holmes for having fabricated an excuse for us to leave early after that. We both knew the feeling, after all, and by then, we'd shared more than that with each other. I could just hope that Mrs. Brown was as deeply satisfied by her choice as we were by ours. The following morning, I was at my desk.  
  
“Do you really think this would be a good case to share, my darling?”  
  
“No, of course. But people are going to wonder over two confirmed bachelors, eventually, so – exotic plots, lost treasures, and a wife. Wiggins wasn't wrong. My fictional character might appreciate all that.”  
  
Holmes made a face. I invited him over with a hooked finger. “For the romance parts to be believable, I'll need some help,” I said, and my eyes fell close, head tilted up. The kiss I received did put me in the right mood – and when I opened my eyes back, my beloved was smiling.


End file.
